


Lift

by likeafouralarmfire



Series: Becoming Root [2]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/F, I had fun writing the Southern belle, Part 2 of 2: the first takes place ages 12-16, Root backstory, should this be T or M? I'm not used to this rating system, there's no Shaw in here but it's background for the Root of my stories, you'll find a few easter eggs from this series throughout my other stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-19
Updated: 2017-03-19
Packaged: 2018-10-07 20:17:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10368579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/likeafouralarmfire/pseuds/likeafouralarmfire
Summary: Nineteen-year-old Root is bored and trapped in Bishop, TX. Her loneliness and frustration find a temporary outlet when she crosses paths with an older woman.





	

_See something you like?_ a voice breathes into your ear.

You freeze in the act of taking a five-finger discount on a couple of pairs of black underwear at a department store in Corpus Christi. It’s not the first time you’ve shoplifted here; security is sparse, and you look like a perfectly nice girl to anyone who doesn’t know better. But in the few years you’ve been amusing yourself this way, it’s the first time you’ve been caught in the act.

Carefully, you place the underwear back onto the stack.

_That’s it, honey,_ says the voice. _Look at me._

You turn around slowly and see that the owner of the voice is familiar. It belongs to a woman about ten years older than you, with a soft pinup figure, a beautiful and meticulously made-up face, and long blonde hair–bleached; her roots are as dark as yours. You think she might be a manager. Your eyes travel down to her red lips and, almost helplessly, to her perfect breasts, framed immaculately by her black scoop neck shirt.

She follows your gaze and lifts an eyebrow.

_Come here._

You follow the woman to a small windowless gray office. Everything about it is sad and dingy, down to the dusty paper clip cup and the inbox loaded with old papers.

She motions to a chair across from the desk, where you promptly sit down–but to your surprise, she doesn’t sit in the opposite desk chair. Instead, she hovers over you and places her hand on the wall. She’s very close now, close enough for you to smell her warm skin and a hint of floral perfume. The nametag pinned to her ample chest–close enough to read the fine print–reads Sue Ann, Floor Manager.

_I’ve seen you here before,_ says Sue Ann. _This isn’t the first time I’ve seen you taking something that’s not yours._

_Why didn’t you bring me here the first time, then?_ It comes out of your mouth before you can think better of it.

To your surprise, Sue Ann starts to laugh like you’ve told her a joke. The laugh throws you off guard.

_You’re not denying it._ It’s a statement, not a question.

Well, this is getting interesting.

Sue Ann leans closer and stares straight at you, into you. You can see every detail of her face: the smooth finish of her foundation, the perfectly-applied shadow in the creases of her gray, merciless eyes. She could grab your throat and pin you to the wall and it wouldn’t surprise you a bit. The thought excites you somewhere deep in your body.

_If you ever try anything like that here again, I’ll make you sorry you did,_ she says, her voice low and dangerous behind her sweet-as-sugar smile. You shiver; she sees your reaction and her grin spreads.

_What’s your name? How old are you?_

_Nineteen. My name is–Root_. It’s the first time you’ve called yourself that out loud. It feels like a kind of radical honesty.

_Root_ , she says, rolling it around in her mouth. _Root. Your mama name you that, sugar?_

_What does that matter?_

Sue Ann slowly straightens up. Her face is a cipher. You flatten back into your chair like she’s just released you from a spell.

_Well, Root_ , she says, _if you haven’t found someplace else to make trouble_ –she checks her watch– _an hour from now when my shift ends, I might or might not be heading out through the double doors to the parking lot. First floor._

She looks you over with careful appreciation, purses her lips, and opens the door for you.

 

* * *

 

Walking through the mall, past the plastic smell of hot pretzels and clusters of kids, you feel your heart beating all the way in your throat. You’re not sure whether it’s because a grown woman, a stranger, instantly saw through a secret you’d been keeping close to the vest for more than four years now, or because on impulse you gave her what you’ve started to think of as your real name.

The hacker community knows you only by your alias. To them, Root is faceless and genderless. To you, Root is your secret truth, yourself distilled: a being of more or less pure mind, whose body is more of a nuisance than a pleasure. Now, to Sue Ann, Root is a thin, prettyish, still-slightly-gangly nineteen-year-old girl in mostly shoplifted clothes and lace-up boots, who stares a little too long at other women’s bodies. Root apparently seems like the kind of reckless, desperate girl that another girl can court with overt come-ons at minimal risk.

At least, you think she was coming onto you. You’ll find out soon enough.

An hour after your odd encounter, you’re standing outside the double doors, waiting for Sue Ann. The late afternoon is hot, and your temples and neck are sticky with sweat by the time you see her coming out of the store. She looks pleased, even a little surprised, to see you.

_How’d you get here?_

_Bus._

_Want a ride?_

_I live all the way in Bishop._

She cocks her eyebrow.

_I didn’t say a ride home._

Yep–definitely coming onto you. Nothing to lose–you nod, stomach in knots, and follow her to her car.

 

* * *

 

Sue Ann’s apartment is small and neat, everything arranged just-so, with a few vases and figurines around that look antique and expensive. She takes two cut glass tumblers and a bottle of whiskey out of the cupboard and pours a splash for each of you.

_To new friendships,_ she says, slyly, as she clinks your glass.

You tip it all back in one go. It burns a path through your throat and you try hard not to cringe. Sue Ann laughs in the same cryptic way she did in the dingy office.

_Root_ , she says again, like she’s continuing your conversation, and leads you to the couch, where you both sit down. _What’s your story, sugar?_

You shrug. _Small town girl. Not much to tell._

_Brothers? Sisters?_

_Just Mom and me._

She nods, taking this in. As she takes a sip, you stare down at your empty glass. Your throat still feels hot.

_How about you?_ you prompt.

_Two older brothers, one younger sister. How long have you known you like girls?_

The suddenness and bluntness of the question shocks you. She laughs again.

_No need to be coy. We both know what you’re here for._

_A while,_ you admit, remembering the fleeting, nascent attractions that tipped you off in early high school–and years spent keeping your mouth shut.

Sue Ann puts a hand on your knee. Then, with her other hand, she tilts your face toward her with unforeseen gentleness.

_Come here,_ she whispers. Her gray eyes close as she leans to press her lips against yours.

After a few minutes on the couch, she takes you to the bedroom and begins to undress you. You reach for the button of her pants, but she grabs your hand and pins it palm-down to the bed.

_Don’t be impatient_ , she scolds you, clearly amused. _You done this before?_

_Only once. A year ago._ You didn’t even know the girl’s name–you just went home with her from that dark little gay bar you got into with a fake ID. The whole thing had been messy, quick; she rummaged underneath your clothes like she was stealing something from your purse. Afterward, she'd dropped you off around the corner from your house, given you one last hasty kiss, and apologized as you were opening the car door. For what, you couldn’t say.

_It shows,_ says Sue Ann. _You just lie back and let me take it from here. There’s no rush._ She grins and touches your cheek. _This is supposed to be fun._

Once she’s finished taking off your clothes, Sue Ann looks over you with wolfish appreciation; slowly, she starts undressing herself. Her body, revealed little by little, cashes every check written under those tight black work clothes. When you reach out to speed up the process, she slaps you away again.

_Put your arms over your head and keep them there until I say you can move them._ Her voice doesn’t waver. You find the desire to obey her irresistible.

She doesn’t tell you to move your arms. Not until she’s done unspeakable, exquisite things to you with her hands and mouth. Then she teaches you her own body, unhurried and expert, like she's showing you through a series of rooms she's lived in for years. By the time she's finished with you, you’ve never been more exhausted–or exhilarated. Your body feels hollow and full all at once.

_Not bad for an amateur,_ notes Sue Ann. _Do you like it when I boss you around?_

_I do, actually._

_Good girl. Next time, we can get a little more… adventurous._

 

* * *

 

_How was work, Sam?_ your mom asks as you shut and lock the front door behind you. She’s on the couch and looks like she’s been there a while. There’s something pale and absent about her, which probably means she’s in a lot of pain tonight and likely a few pills in.

_Not bad_. _How are you feeling?_

_Been worse._ She gives you a brave smile. _Proud of you, kid._

Your stomach turns a little. Stealing and hacking don’t ping your conscience, but lying to your mom still makes you feel guilty. Though to be fair, that doesn’t stop you.

Case in point: she thinks you’re coming home from a part time retail job, supposedly near the community college where you are, in actual fact, taking a few classes for the sake of access to their library and computer lab. The job embellishment builds in some extra time to blow off steam outside the house, not to mention an excuse for why you have a steady stream of supplemental household money and a frequently rotating wardrobe.

You also lie about what you do with the computers you’re so attached to. No need for her to know you’re anything more than a bright, nerdy girl with a strong penchant for comp sci.

The one thing you never lie about–because you never talk about it–is the reason you’re stuck in this crappy little town, in a run-down house with a dead lawn and dishes so old the stains never wash out, when for years you’ve secretly stockpiled enough ill-gotten gains to get you halfway across the world. Neither of you brings up the question of why you’re still here, because your mom knows the answer as well as you do. The moment when you could have made a break for it was the moment you realized she wasn’t really well enough to live alone anymore. And before you can find a plausible explanation for your current bank balance, you can’t yet uproot the two of you to a place where the dishes get clean and maybe, just maybe, you won’t have to hide.

It’s painful for both of you, but there’s nothing to be done–not for now, at least. So you get by the best you can: you do the shopping and clean when she’s too tired; you wash the same stained dishes over and over. In between, you take the bus and go to classes and loiter in libraries and malls. You build and rebuild your home computer and talk to strangers in places you’ve never been and break into other people’s systems and get up to no good, just for the fun of it.

Sometimes you take out your mom’s truck and the handgun you keep hidden in your room and drive off into the middle of nowhere. You fire off round after round into the empty landscape, into nothingness that stretches on forever. The crisp report of the gun, the smell, the kickback, loosen something inside you: the tight knot of secrets you’ve been carrying around for years. The knot always tightens again–your perpetual noose–a few minutes after you get home.

And every minute, every second, you're waiting for the next thing.

 

* * *

 

Sue Ann is thirty-one years old and a real-live Southern belle. Those expensive-looking decorations, as well as the silver pattern she trots out the few times she takes it into her head to cook for you, are genuine family heirlooms. Years ago she was on the pageant circuit–a fact you flat out refuse to believe until she shows you a posed picture of herself at your age in a tiara and sash. Apart from the hairstyle, young Sue Ann looks the same as she does now. A little softer around the cheeks, maybe. You tell her so, and she smiles at you.

_Bless your heart, honey._

She asks about you and your interests with genuine curiosity. Computers don’t make much sense to her, but she’s bright and a good listener, so you go ahead and tell her the stories of some of your less–well, criminal exploits. She’s suitably impressed.

_I like a brainy girl,_ she tells you.

You never ask whether Sue Ann is sleeping with anyone else. She probably is. Doesn’t matter either way to you. This thing between you is easy and comfortable. You don’t want more from her than she’s already giving you. A reason to take pleasure in owning a body, for maybe the first time. A place to go–literally and figuratively–for a moment of relief.

Sue Ann is good at harnessing your stir-crazy energy–not least thanks to her extensive toy collection. Genuine regulation handcuffs, appendages and attachments, a blindfold and skeins of smooth white rope–she knows more knots than a boy scout. She teaches you what a safe word is and how to use it--though you never do. Over a series of afternoons, she keeps you dancing on the threshold of pleasure and pain, testing your limits against heat, knifepoint, the back of a hairbrush, until she finds the precise point in each category that unravels you.

_You're tough as nails, aren't you, honey?_ she asks, impressed, after a particularly intense session with a lighter and a butter knife. At this moment, your body feels like you could spread it with that knife: gelatinous and quivering and loose--and alive. No knots, no dishes, and no secrets.

 

* * *

 

_When did you first figure out you liked girls?_ you ask one afternoon, a couple months in. She's poured you each a glass of sweet tea; sometimes she likes to take her time like this, enjoy the still of the late afternoon, before taking you to bed.

_During my pageant days_ , she says. _Tensions running high. Had to find some outlet. From there, things just... fell into place._

She makes it sounds so easy.

When the tea is gone,  you retire to her bedroom and her box of tricks.

_Can I be in charge today?_ you ask.

She looks at you, surprised, but settles against the headboard.

_All right, then._

Sue Ann is impressed at the ease with which you tie her wrists to the headboard with one of her favorite knots. _You done this before?_

_You’d know if I had,_ you point out, grinning. _I learned by watching you. I’m a quick study._

If you liked being the instrument, the recipient of pain, it’s nothing to how you feel on the other end. You’re a dab hand at sadism, a natural virtuoso, gliding up and down the scales of exquisite torture like you were born to the task, whispering sweet nothings as you make her sweat.

It’s true what they say about giving and receiving. Being in control, making her squirm and beg, feels better than the knife-edge of pain and pleasure. Better even than firing a gun.

_Holy shit,_ Sue Ann gasps, after it’s over. It’s the first time you’ve ever heard her curse. _You are a quick study._

_Learned from the best, sugar,_ you tease.

 

* * *

 

This kind of thing isn’t mean to last.

A few months after you’ve started--whatever this is, the store offers Sue Ann a promotion if she moves to a new Dallas branch. You help her pack a few boxes the last time you come over.

_You should come visit sometime_ , says Sue Ann. Both of you know full well that you won’t.

_Thank you_ , you tell her. You want to say more, to thank her for something specific--maybe just for showing you that your body is worth living in–but anything you can think of sounds weird and maudlin. She sees you struggling and laughs in that way that first disarmed you in the store office. It’s not a mean laugh–just a knowing one–though you’re not sure which is worse.

_You’re something pretty special, Root,_ she says, kissing you on the forehead. _You’re going to get out of that little hick town of yours and do something great._

You think about the money waiting for you in a brimming bank account, about your mom waiting for you at home this very second. About the wide beautiful world in miniature, perfect as a postage stamp, outside Sue Ann’s kitchen window, waiting for you to join it and be free. Something else, something bigger, is out there waiting for you; it must be. It must be.

_Maybe_ , you say. _I hope you’re right._


End file.
